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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019944">Shaken</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercake/pseuds/glittercake'>glittercake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Awkward Flirting, Barman!bucky, Beefy Bucky Barnes, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Steve Rogers - Freeform, Misunderstandings, Organized Crime, POV Alternating, Private Investigator!Sam, minor marvel bad guys</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:29:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,584</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercake/pseuds/glittercake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Wilson runs a small, independent investigative firm with his college friend Steve. </p>
<p>He's renowned for solving and uncovering just about anything that lands on his desk until random strangers start disappearing in his city. With only a hunch and an address, he heads to a dingy dive bar downtown for answers.</p>
<p>What he finds is so much more than he bargained for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>314</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Marvel Trumps Hate 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/velociraptorerin/gifts">velociraptorerin</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Wrote this for Marvel Trumps Hate Auction 2020 that <a href="https://velociraptorerin-art.tumblr.com/">@velociraptorerin-art</a> won! Erin gave me such an amazingly fun prompt and what was meant to be max 5k spiraled into 15k! I hope I've done your idea justice, Erin!</p>
<p>This fic is complete and I'll update every Saturday/Sunday.</p>
<p>(check out Erin's art on tumblr y'all, it's amazing!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When Sam looks up from his laptop, eight hours had gone by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realizes when he hears the alarm being disabled and the office door unlocking, he has worked right through the night again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun's beaming pale yellow through the ratty blinds already, and the coffee's gone bitter and burnt in the pot when Steve walks into the mess of stacked books and newspapers that is Sam's office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nooo," he says disbelievingly, stopping in the doorway. He's got that annoying, exasperated, 'not again' look on his face that makes Sam feel bad for not taking better care of himself. Because he's still in yesterday's clothes, tie all loose and sloppy around his neck, shirt untucked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts his hands up as shelter, watching Steve crack open the blinds, and then closes his eyes against the harsh light, "Look, don't lecture me," he says. He takes his glasses off and rubs the pounding spot at his temple, then gets up to stretch his arms way above his head until something makes a disgusting crack in his neck. "At least give me coffee first. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Then </span>
  </em>
  <span>lecture me." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Darleen Wilson would have plenty to say about this, he knows. She'd tell him sitting hunched over a desk all night is no good for posture, that drinking nine cups of coffee is gonna give him a heart attack. She'd definitely have something to say about him getting maybe five hours of sleep in the last two days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Steve knows that too, "Your ma's gonna <em>kill</em> me, man." He hands the steaming, brown take-out cup over. Sam's glasses steam up with the delicious waft of hazelnuts and caramel, and he hears his mom say </span>
  <em>
    <span>that ain't no good either.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, yeah." He takes the first sip and sighs, and now that he closes his eyes, he feels how tired he really is. Almost lets the deep, sinking feeling drag him under. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve shrugs his coat off, sits down at his desk, "Not 'yeah yeah.' I said I'd look out for you last time we were down there." He's talking absently, opening his laptop, uncapping the coffee, and ignoring Sam's eye roll completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then seeing, probably, that Sam won't budge on this, at least not for now, he sighs, "Alright, what've we got? Anything new on Jennifer Watson?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam leans back in his chair so that his head has a place to rest. Jennifer Watson. The latest victim, the latest inexplicable vanishing around the city. Yet another piece Sam doesn't have to this ever-growing and seemingly unsolvable puzzle he's unearthed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He huffs like the last bit of energy is dwindling fast and gets up, coffee in hand, heading to his whiteboard. It's already so full, crammed with photographs and newspaper clippings and sticky notes and red string connecting nothing at all. Much of an investigator he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts up Jennifer's photo, "Female, 38, graphic designer, no kids, no husband. Worlds apart from Jordan." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve groans, frustrated, through a mouthful of coffee. The last victim was a 19-year-old boy, before that, a 58-year-old post office worker. There's no consistency with these disappearances. There's no motive, and no cell signal to track. And that's about all they have in common- the </span>
  <em>
    <span>lack</span>
  </em>
  <span> of anything in common. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus the fact that their worried families have all contacted Sam to find them due to his stellar investigative reputation. Sometimes it feels great that he's one who solved the big Willow Manor's case of missing gold bars and then started his own independent little firm. He loves his work, loves investigations, loves the thrill and chase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But other times, a case like this lands on his desk and just totally stumps him. He started this investigation service because he has the gift of perspective. He's able to see things differently; his ma said as a kid he'd find lost keys and wallets within minutes, even figured out who didn't replace the toilet roll. Much to the annoyance of his two siblings. (It was always Sarah)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His perspective is letting him down, this time, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," Steve says, "Alright. I'll tell you what, you take a nap on the couch 'cause I probably won't get you to go home—" he pauses to look at Sam, stupidly hopeful but knowing him all too well, "No? Okay. Take a nap then. Maybe this just needs a fresh eye, huh?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way Steve's picking at the messy and twisted red string stuck to the whiteboard, the grimace on his face, makes Sam laugh. "Yeah, fine," he says, gingerly ambling over to the sunken two-seater. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The couch was here when they set up shop, and it's used up and smells a bit molten and dusty but has the most comfortable, invitingly soft cushions as if it knew who'd be sitting on it: tired, worn out private investigators, that's who.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm fine, though," he mumbles, bringing his coffee to his lips in a half-wristed attempt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve pulls up one eyebrow, "Sure."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Just... finishing... this," Sam slurs, but he falls asleep clutching the cup.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The sun looks different, brighter, unmistakably glowing like midday when Sam opens his eyes. He blinks awake slowly, a little displaced at first, before remembering he's at the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drags himself up, looks around. Steve's sitting by the window desk, hunched forward so all the bones in his skinny back poke through his shirt. There's fresh take out on the table by the door, noodles, and beef, and Sam goes toward it with wobbly zombie-like steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Looks who's up!" Steve says without turning around. His nose is buried in papers, four stacks in front of him. "Food's by the—Oh." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam comes to stand beside him, slurping up a noodle. Steve grins and reaches for his own box. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Got anything? Someone I can talk to?" Sam asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thought I did," he shows Sam a page, "They all headed East, see." He shows Sam street cam footage of them leaving their locations, all moving in the same direction. "That's gotta be something, right?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam sits down and rolls his chair closer, gets noodle sauce on his slacks, "That's something!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's what I thought, but the footage cuts out before Fifth street to switch over, and by then they're gone," Steve shovels stir fry into his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's out that way? Past Fifth. They're all headed there; there's gotta be a common interest?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Common interest? A 50-year-old, a teenager, and a graphic designer?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come on, let's see the map again." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve opens the browser then opens the lower city map. There's not much down there but a playground, the fire station, and a bar. The area is part of the old neighborhood, with lots of abandoned blocks and warehouses and rumored underground tunnels that the younger guys go-to for parties and races and all kinds of shit that's probably not legal, but none of Sam's business anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Feeling better?" Steve eyes him a little from the side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam shrugs, makes an airy sound, and with his cheek full, says, "I wasn't feeling <em>bad."</em> rolling his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You looked like hot shit." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam leans back and pokes Steve's ribs with his chopsticks, "You said I'm hot." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aw Jesus. Stop, will you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Said it, can't take it back."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're awful, Wilson," Steve says, bright pink and bothered as he gets up to leave, "I'm headin' out. You're on your own." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's laughing, scooting over to take Steve's place by the desk, "Never gets old." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't stay here again! Go home!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he's out the door and gone, and Sam's left in his office with piles of papers and a screen full of questions. Ready to get back to work. Except maybe he won't need to work that hard today after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lines up the pages showing Jennifer and the two others' departure then zooms in on the map. There's nothing a 38-year-old single woman with no kids would want at a playground. Neither would a teenager or a middle-aged man. Same goes for the fire station. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which leaves the old dive bar down by the river. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plenty they could have in common with a joint like that, he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hacks the street cam just outside the bar, a couple of meters up, and doesn't see anything weird about it. That's until the same Hyundai drives past for the third time, the same woman crosses the road again and again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he realizes: the footage is looped.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam Googles the place. Established in 1980, burnt down in 1991, rebuilt and refurbished, and bought by someone called Gideon Malick in 1994. Malick is an old skeezy looking white dude, according to Google. Aside from the bar, he has directorship on a few big pharma company boards alongside Alexander Pierce. Another skeezy-looking white dude. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bar itself is nothing special, just a shabby, neon-sign, cash-only-sticker-on-the-door kind of place. He can smell the stale beer and salted peanuts, and sticky floor just from looking at the pictures. Riders, it's called. Nothing spectacular, ain't much suspicious about it either save for the broken footage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he can picture Jennifer heading over there for a cheap drink after a long week behind her laptop. He can see newly legal Jordan going out to meet his friends there for a game of pool (because there'll for sure be a pool table, he's betting it's purple). 58 year old married Hank perhaps having a midlife crisis and drinking his blues away? He can definitely see it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, yeah. This feels like a hunch. Sam will have to check it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he does go home like Steve ordered, even if it's just to shower and change before he heads back to work. Even though work is a scaly dive bar all the way out by the river, it still counts, so Steve probably won't be so impressed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips on some jeans to look casual, a black golf shirt, and a coat. Thinks he looks pretty nice and chill, just like someone checking out a new place, not a P.I coming to dig for clues. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bar looks way different than the Google photos, still a little grimy but… nice. It's got Riders written out in a cursive neon font that glows above the entrance, and the inside is swimming in low, broody red lights and definitely smells like stale beer and peanuts. He was spot on about the pool table too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's pretty empty, though. A few people sparsely scattered along the counter, a couple watching football highlights in a booth seat and one busy-looking guy in a corner on a laptop, and... <em>oh… </em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh damn. The barman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instinctively, Sam tugs at his coat and smooths a hand over his hair before walking over to the bar. Because this guy's kind of cute, he wasn't really expecting any of that, didn't come here for <em>cute,</em> and he's still not here for cute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But a man has eyes, and looking ain't a sin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's tall and built like a tank, like that grey Henley is holding on by each fiber the way it's stretched across his chest and rolled up over his forearms. He's a little scruffy, too, with his hair tied in a low ponytail, and maybe that's a three-day stubble on his face, darker than a shadow but not so dark you can't see his jaw. Sam wonders if he doubles up as the bouncer being so big and all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he's still taking in his fill from a distance, sizing him up from afar, when the guy waves at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, man. Drink?" the barman says, grinning all wide and stupid, and oh shit, he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam says, "Uh…" and tries real hard to remind himself that he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> here for cute. He's </span>
  <em>
    <span>not.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>awkward flirting: check!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>just a heads up: there are some unwelcome suggestions made by greasy old men toward Bucky early on in the chapter.</p><p>Gideon Malick, for those who are not familiar with Agents of Shield is one of the high Hydra heads of the series, as well as John Garrett. Seemed like they'd all be friends with Pierce.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's not that Bucky likes drying glasses and packing them in neat little rows all day, or even that he likes cleaning up sticky liquor messes on the counter. But he doesn't exactly hate it. First off, it pays for his tiny one-bedroom, open-plan, "the view's real great at night" apartment. Secondly, it's actually pretty chill. </p><p>They're never really busy except for St. Patrick's, New Year's, and sometimes Valentines, so he's hardly stressed or overworked. Plus, he gets to meet a few interesting folks from time to time, even some hookups once in a blue moon. </p><p>But he has to wonder, not being so busy and all, how this place even stays afloat at all. How does his boss afford that Mercedes, the fancy tailored suits and particularly the Rolex on his wrist? How have they just renovated the storeroom into a poker room with retractable cabinets and shutters? That's not even mentioning the random shut downs, giving Bucky a week of work while they renovate? He's not complaining... just curious. </p><p>Speaking of the devil, he hears Malick's telltale whistle come from the street outside where he just parked. Bucky can never quite place the song; he's sure it's some 80's hit, 70's maybe, but it always gets stuck in his head when he hears Malick whistle. It sounds slightly unnerving, too, kind of like the Kill Bill theme, like something dangerous follows. </p><p>It's Friday night which means poker night in Malick's new rec room; it also means his creepy old friends are tagging along and heading over to flirt with Bucky again. There's something about them; Bucky can handle some flirting, some ill-mannered compliments, but there's something about these guys that makes his skin crawl in all the bad ways. </p><p>Like clockwork, they file in, already a bit liquored up, laughing. Malick, red tie hanging loose, looking a little sweaty around his hairline, grins at Bucky and comes over to shake his hand.</p><p>"How's it going, son? Anything special happen around here?" Malick's fingers curl around Bucky's hand. The touch is clammy and cold and he wants to jerk away.</p><p>"Does someone ordering a margarita instead of a beer count as special?" Bucky says. Malick's friends join him, elbows leaning on the bar, and he feels that thick, hungry air radiating off them, almost choking him. </p><p>Malick laughs, and when he does, his eyes narrow and his teeth show, and the sweat glints off his forehead under the red lights like droplets of blood. Each time this happens, Bucky remembers what his ma always said about the devil and how he's every businessman with a sharp smile and slicked-back hair.</p><p>He finally pulls his hand from Bucky's. "Just the way we like it, huh? Nice and quiet," he says, then turns to his counterparts "What are we having, boys?" </p><p>"First," says Malick's friend Alex, the slimmer and greyer of the lot, "Tell me you've considered my offer, Jamie." </p><p>Bucky hates that name. He starts preparing their drinks because by now, he's done this enough times to know what they're having and how much of it they're having.</p><p>He forces a smile, "It's very kind of you, Mr. Pierce, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline." Because his very inappropriate offer was for Bucky to move into his city penthouse, and … well, that was it, really. He can deduce what else that'll entail. </p><p>Mr. Garrett knocks his arm into Pierce's, "Obviously, he's ain't a penthouse kinda guy, Alex. Look at him." He gets a disgustingly syrupy look in his eyes and leans in close, "I'm sure he'd be more comfortable in my cabin, out in nature." His eyes land and travel down Bucky's arms and chest, "Maybe chopping up some wood for me, huh?"</p><p>"Quit harassing my best employee, John," Malick says, waving them off, "Send our drinks in, James, ask Ronnie to fix up some chicken and fries. Salad for Alex, though—" they all laugh and start heading toward the poker storeroom, "—heard his wife say his cholesterol's sky-high again."</p><p>Bucky waits until they close the door before he shivers in disgust. At least he won't see them for the rest of the evening; once they're in there, they don't show face again. He sanitizes his hands—because god knows where Malick's have been—then loads their drinks and shots onto the tray and hands it to one of the waiters to take in. He calls their food order to the kitchen behind him and gets back to drying off the clean glasses when his eyes catch someone at the door. </p><p>And oh… okay, perhaps he'd been too quick to say that nothing exciting happened around here because this guy sure is exciting him. Black guy with a neatly trimmed beard, maybe a little shorter than Bucky himself, nice broad shoulders too, and wearing thick black-rimmed glasses. He takes his coat off, and damn, he's got nice arms. His skin looks like maybe he marinated in honey and milk all day, like these ugly bar lights were made just for him. </p><p>He looks a little unsure of where to sit down, and then he looks at Bucky, and stands there blinking for a moment.</p><p>"Hey man," Bucky says like his throat's dry and sandy, "Drink?" </p><p>"Uh…" He stops blinking and starts moving his feet. He swings his coat over the back of a chair, lifts himself up to sit, and then grins at Bucky.</p><p>"Hi," he says, sliding his glasses to the top of his head.</p><p>And now Bucky's the one blinking stupidly, "Hi," He smiles, can't help it, feels his cheeks going hot. This guy is really cute.</p><p>"Uhm, you said you got drinks over here?" the man says, smiling a little sheepishly. He's pressing his lips together and it makes a small dimple form on his cheek. Then he's frowning, looking at Bucky like maybe he's a little weird, and Bucky doesn't know why…oh! </p><p>"Yeah!" he says, remembering that he's actually a barman, and he <em> did </em>offer this guy a drink. What the hell Barnes... "Yeah, of course, what you having?"</p><p>"I, uh," he starts patting down his pockets, checking the counter, feeling his pockets again, "Where'd I put my glasses?" </p><p>"Uhm," Bucky tries not to laugh, points to his head, "On your…" the guy looks instantly mortified and sighs, indeed finding his specs on his head where he'd put them. And, oh. This is no good… this is...he is…. That was <em> adorable </em>.</p><p>"Jesus. Sorry," He squints at the rack of liquor and rows bar fridges behind Bucky. Bucky doesn't look away from him at all. "I don't—" </p><p>"Not a big drinker?" </p><p>"Not really." he looks a little shy now,  incredibly cute. He shrugs, "Occasionally. Very rarely, actually."</p><p>Bucky laughs, grabbing a cider from the fridge, "This is pretty light. Let's start here." </p><p>Just as he starts saying <em> thanks, </em>Garrett comes strutting out of the not-storeroom room.</p><p>"Sweetheart," he says, and Bucky's heart sinks. There's probably nothing worse than the cute new guy thinking he's on some weird favorable terms with the creepy old dudes. The way his eyebrow arches up says that's exactly what he's thinking. "Why don't you just gimme two bottles of Jack, huh? Gonna be a long night." </p><p>"Sure thing," Bucky says, reaching for the booze and handing it over. Garrett winks at him, nods a greeting at Sam then thankfully vanishes behind the closed door again. </p><p>"Sweetheart, huh?" </p><p>"That's not—it's not what you—" </p><p>"Relax, I'm yanking your chain."</p><p>Bucky has the rudest thought, completely unnecessary and nasty, but he thinks, <em> god, I'd like that </em> and feels himself redden again. </p><p>"I'm Sam, by the way," his customer says and sticks a hand out for him to shake. His hand is not clammy at all, it's soft, and Bucky doesn't even look at the sanitizer when their palms touch.</p><p>"Bucky," he says, "It's James, but. Uh," thinks he better explain that because Sam is frowning, "Second name's Buchanan. Bucky just kind of developed with me since childhood." </p><p>Sam nods, "Bucky's nice. Kinda weird, but nice." </p><p>A moment passes where they just kind of stare at each other, grinning dumbly. Bucky thinks it's awful because he likes it, likes the way Sam looks at him, likes the way he smiles. But who says Sam's even here for that, who says he's into guys at all, or into Bucky for that matter. </p><p>Bucky fiddles with his short ponytail, forces his eyes away, and clears his throat, but he doesn't know what to say.  </p><p>"So… was that your boss?" Sam takes a sip of cider and looks pleasantly surprised, but it leaves his bottom lip slick before he licks it, and Bucky forgets how to Barman again. </p><p>"He—no. No." He quickly uncaps himself a Heineken, gulps down the cool liquid, and hopes it makes him stop malfunctioning in the words department. "Boss' friend. Well, one of the friends. He offered me a position as a professional Sugar Baby living in his remote cabin just a few minutes ago." He makes a fake-proud face, blinking rapidly, and Sam almost spits out his next sip. </p><p>"Wow, did you take him up on it?" Sam asks, smiling against the bottle's mouth before taking another sip, his long fingers curling around the bottom.</p><p>"Look, pal. Tips are bad, but they're not <em> that </em>bad." </p><p>Sam laughs, low and in a way that makes his shoulders shake and his head drop. He looks back up again, slow and easy and <em> oh shit. </em> Bucky's fucked. Just from the way Sam's eyes glint in the lurid, glowing red lights, Bucky knows he's fucked. This guy is <em> gorgeous. </em></p><p>Some customer at the other end of the counter orders another round, so he serves them up, tends to a group of tourist girls bar hopping. He takes a few selfies with them, and notices Sam glancing over, smiling, raising his glass. Bucky waves, smiles back. </p><p>Once it quiets down, he makes his way over to Sam again. Sam's still perched on the barstool near the till. </p><p>"Your boss doesn't mind?" Sam asks when Bucky caps open another beer. He leans forward into Bucky's space again. Bucky might just be hopeful, but Sam seems to perk up in his presence, just a little more glowy in his cheeks when Bucky is around. </p><p>Bucky shakes his head, swallows, "Nah, he's hardly ever around. Mostly Friday nights." </p><p>"Oh, he's here now?" Sam says, slightly nervously, looking around.</p><p>"Yeah, in the back. Poker night," Bucky explains, "That's where cabin daddy came from." Sa, laughs and Bucky watches in amusement as his eyes crinkle in the corners and his whole face lights up with it.</p><p>Just then, the bar phone rings, "Excuse me," says Bucky and answers. Someone wants pizza and beer delivered. He shouts the order to the kitchen, just as another plate comes out for the couple in the corner booth, and turns back to Sam.</p><p>"Y'all make food too? Jeez, what else? Strip club in the back?" Sam eyes the plate of fatty onion rings and fried chicken.</p><p>Thinking he's funny, Bucky strikes a pose- a hand on his hip, the other behind his head like that's totally how strippers behave, "Yeah, almost time for my second shift, can't you tell."</p><p>And for the second time tonight, he almost makes Sam spit out his drink. "You're a little top-heavy for those poles, buddy," he says. Sam's eyes flick down his frame for just a split second. A different, more heated look flashes across his face.</p><p>"I'm kidding, of course, just food and booze." He gestures to the endless bottles of alcohol behind himself and the fresh plate of food now in his hand. "And me."</p><p>"Good enough," Sam smiles, definitely checking Bucky out this time as he finishes off his beer. Bucky really hopes it's not his last drink. He hopes this guy stays for at least four more rounds and drinks slowly enough to make it last all night. </p><p>To Bucky's delight, he orders another one and a plate of fries to go with it, which he takes a photo of and sends to someone, and whoever responds makes him laugh. A boyfriend maybe? Bucky sucks up his disappointment.</p><p>A few more patrons stumble in, and Sam eats while Bucky serves them. When they're alone again, they talk about movies and find they actually like the same kind, share many of the same music interests too- Bucky even puts some of it on the bar's stereo for them to listen to.</p><p>Sam asks a bunch of questions about the bar, says he's interested in small businesses and how they hold up in this economy. He says he works for a consultancy firm uptown, and stays just a little way from his workplace, just like Bucky. He asks if he's the only new customer that's come along recently, promises that this ain't a one-time deal—him coming for a drink after work—when Bucky says he's seen a few new faces, but none of them ever came back.</p><p>And from what Bucky can gather, he's single, works far too much, and lives alone with a cat named Fiargo. He's hopeful again, wonders if he'll get shot down; the guy's a little out of his league. </p><p>Eventually, the time comes for last round calls, and everyone starts heading out, leaving them alone in the dimly lit room, and it's only by chance that something slow plays when Sam gets up to go.</p><p>"Nah, it's on the house, pal," Bucky says when Sam wants to settle his bill, and then there's a little tug of war: <em> "no, I couldn't," "don't worry about it," "your boss is gonna kill you." </em> before Sam finally accepts.</p><p>He takes a business card from the countertop, slides over a far too generous tip, and looks at Bucky, his eyes a little glassy, tired, and it's a huge struggle for Bucky to keep from saying, <em> come over to my place, it's right around the corner.  </em></p><p>Instead, he tells Sam it was nice meeting him, and he had a good time talking. </p><p>"I'll see you again," Sam says, holding out his hand in greeting.</p><p>"Yeah," Bucky says, holding on a little too long, "I'll be waiting." </p><p>He hopes to all hell Sam keeps to his word. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"And then I'm looking for my goddamn glasses…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's sitting legs folded on the old couch with a coffee, eating some terribly healthy sandwich that Steve got for them this morning. Steve was, as Sam suspected, happy he got out for a change even if he'd technically been working.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve shrugs his bony shoulders, frowning, not at all getting why that was so mortifying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They were </span>
  <em>
    <span>on my head,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Steve." Steve guffaws so hard at that Sam worries that his turkey on rye will come out his nose. He sighs, "God, he must've thought what an asshole. Right? What kind of idiot."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve's doubling over, nearly on the floor. Sam hates him so much. He takes the treacherous glasses off and tosses them onto his desk, pinches the bridge of his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sure he doesn't even remember that part. You were there all night; lots happened between the glasses and you leaving." Steve tells him, finding it in himself to look sincere even though he's still red with laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, one thing's for sure he doesn't suspect I'm a P.I sniffing around for clues. You'd expect a P.I to be a little savvier."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve laughs again, </span>
  <span>"Probably didn't even notice, buddy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, I can never go back now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam actually can't help but feel kind of shitty about lying to the guy. It's not lying, in all fairness, just omitting the truth. He <em>does</em> do some consulting work from time to time. But it's not like he could just stroll in there asking obvious questions and alert them if it happens to be some illegal gig. For all, he knows Bucky's in on it and covering up for his boss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, no," Steve says, leans back, eyes wide, "I know that look. I know it. You like him!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I don't! He—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You think he's hot, don't you? Oh my god!" Steve is his most annoying self today. Sam should have called in sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes, chomps down the last of his sandwich, and scoots his chair closer to his desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>hot. That's not the point, though. Can you focus?" Steve's doing a weird hip-thrusting dance in the middle of their tiny office. "Can you?" Sam tosses the crumpled-up sandwich paper at Steve's head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He catches it, "Okay, Alright!" he brings his chair closer, sidles up beside Sam, "What'd you get off him? Did he see Watson?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you for calming down—I don't know, man, he said he's seen a few new folks come in, but they never came back. Couldn't exactly ask, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh was it a 38-year-old lady or a 19-year-old kid </span>
  </em>
  <span>without sounding suspicious, you know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Or were you too busy gazing into his green eyes?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They're blue. Actually grey." Sam says, and Steve snorts, "But no. His boss plays poker there on Fridays though, him and his friends—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The skeezy old dudes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"—Yeah. And when they play, they stay real late, so this Bucky guy locks up and leaves them to it. Plenty of time to make someone disappear when no one's looking, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All the patrons would have gone home. No one would have seen a thing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You gotta go back, check out the security cameras. The place has security cameras, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Inside? No. Outside is looped, shows the same shit over and over. No eyes in the place at all, I checked. Which—" Sam stretches back in his chair and sighs. This whole deal is going nowhere fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"—makes this even more suspicious. Fuck."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Exactly. Besides, I can't go back," Sam says. Steve looks at him, a questioning furrow between his brows, "I forgot my glasses </span>
  <em>
    <span>on my head,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Steve!"</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>He goes back. What else is he going to do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he tells himself it's for work, that he's trying to figure out where Jennifer and Jordan and Hank could have gone, how they just vanished without a trace. He tells himself it's because he's got a hunch about this place, and it's all bad; something about Bucky's boss bothers him, and he's never even met the guy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells himself it's not about the beefy brunette at all. He's an investigator first and foremost and a fool with a crush secondly. This is a terrible idea anyway; he's setting himself up for heartbreak if Bucky turns out to be involved somehow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saturday night's busier than usual. Bucky's at the bar shaking ice around in those metal containers, shooting sharp smiles at his customers, bagging  tips one after the other, and lord… Sam has to get a grip. This won't do at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But... it's just… god, he's cute. Sam wonders if it's only coincidence that his favorite album is playing, or if Bucky remembered Sam mentioned a few songs he liked off it. Slow doo-wops, what's better than that? He wonders too, what it'll be like dancing with Bucky, being swung around in those huge arms. He bet the guy could pick him up off the floor, no problem.</span>
</p><p><span>He sits down in the same spot he did the night before, Bucky doesn't see him straight away, so Sam watches undisturbed</span><span>. He watches Bucky'</span>s arms and chest flex while holding two bottles he's pouring from, the way his shirt shifts across his back, the slight sheen of sweat on his collarbones, his loose hair framing his jaw. And then the sweet, shy smile when they tip well. Oh god.</p><p>
  <span>It's enough to take his mind off the case for a little while. Enough to forget that Jennifer is still missing, and her family paid Sam to figure out what happened to her, except he's running on empty, all his leads are cold, and he can't exactly sneak into the boss's office unnoticed to dig around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts tugging at his collar, neck damp, just an all-over hollowness in the pit of his gut. He doesn't realize that he'd dropped his head in his hands, and he's breathing kind of funny until Bucky says his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey." He leans down a little to catch Sam's eye, "You okay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Damn," Sam mutters, drags both hands down his face, and takes a long, deep breath, "Yeah, shit. Sorry, man. Rough day, you know?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know," he points to a small group of women dancing, "bachelorette lunch." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam wants to know what the hell kind of bride has her bachelorette at a seedy joint downtown, but then Bucky says, "Boss's niece. Hey, </span>
  <span>I don't think your light cider's gonna cut it tonight, man." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam eyes the honey-colored liquors lined up behind Bucky like a shrine, "I think you might be right, what else you got?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright. I got an emergency kit ready to go. Hold on." Then he backs away, comes back with a bottle of clear liquid, a salt shaker, and a plate of sliced lemons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam remembers enough of his college days, and Steve passed out on Phi Kappa's front lawn with no pants to say, "Oh, fuck me." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky's eyes glint, "Don't be a pussy." He starts filling two abnormally long shot glasses with Tequila and hands Sam a lemon. "Lick," he says, and Sam's brain does something like electric wires in water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dumbly, staring at Bucky's mouth, he says, "What?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky laughs, tucks his hair behind his ear, "Lick your hand... for the salt to stick." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I knew that," Sam grumbles and obliges, licking a wet patch just above the base of his thumb. Bucky's eyes trace the movement like maybe he wanted to be the one doing it. Sam wouldn't have said no. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they're throwing back the shots, biting into the sour hellish flesh of the lemon and clinking their glasses together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nasty," Sam says, wiping his mouth and thinks he got whatever dripped down his chin, but when he looks at Bucky, his eyes are blown black and fixed on Sam's mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You got some—" he gestures to his own chin. Sam wipes but misses. "—right there… no, uh... Let me…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he touches his thumb to Sam's lower lip and drags it down his chin, and the electric mangle starts up in Sam's head again, and he tells himself very sternly not to stick his tongue out right now</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But he's fucked already, so when Bucky withdraws his hand, Sam traces the spot with his tongue. Bucky's eyes narrow, fixing Sam with something deadly hot in his gaze; Sam shifts under it, feels like gasping for air, like a bag of cement is sitting on his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm gonna go check on the, uh—" he gestures over to the small group of girls, and Sam nods, startled about whatever that just was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other end of the bar, Bucky makes each of the girls another cocktail in what seems to be a takeaway cup, and then they're heading out the door. One of the girls stay behind and slips a piece of paper into Bucky's palm. Sam is disturbingly annoyed when Bucky sticks it in his back pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Must happen a lot, huh?" Sam says before he's able to stop his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"More than you think," Bucky says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lucky you." Sam's not feeling a little bitter about that. He's not. That'd just be stupid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not exactly my type, though," Bucky says, then starts cleaning up the area just down the bar where the girls had been sitting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam tries not to think about it too hard, tries not to think about what Bucky's type might be. Gets on his phone while he is alone and talks to Steve for a while. Steve's got all kinds of questions, mostly about the barman, but he's also back at the office fine combing through the looped footage and time stamps for clues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the stereo switches to more smooth, lazy songs that Sam loves, and he's kind of bopping to it, singing along under his breath. And maybe gets a little too into it because, by the time he looks up, the bar's gone empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come on. Dance with me," Bucky says behind him after a second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Sam turns around, he's putting the mop aside and holding his hand out to Sam. Sam laughs, looks at him, then at the empty bar, then back at Bucky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What? Here? You're at </span>
  <em>
    <span>work?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"And?" Bucky drawls with a lazy, way too convincing look in his eyes, "Are you my boss or something?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam slides off the chair and takes Bucky's hand, and damn, it's warm and soft, "Definitely not." he says so low it's barely audible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, slowly and tentatively, careful to an art and far too tender for his size, Bucky tugs him closer. Their chests pressing together, bodies warm and unsure and Bucky's breath on his cheek, swaying together under these harsh red lights to a song Sam's struggling to remember suddenly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he hears is static, his heart pounding, his resolve dwindling. He grips Bucky's bicep for steadiness but squeezes out of curiosity and hears a pleased hum rumble from Bucky's throat. Bucky, in turn, splays his giant palm out flat on Sam's lower back and guides them into a rhythm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And good lord. It's <em>a lot.</em> It's so good; it's goddamn dizzying in a way he hasn't felt in a hot minute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no idea how long they shuffle around on the floor, but eventually, the album runs through, and the music stops. By then, his cheek's resting against Bucky's, and the faint scratch of his stubble is weirdly soothing. Sam doesn't want to move away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Bucky pulls back a little. Runs his hand through his hair, laughing like a coy little kid as his hands fall from Sam's body, "I have to lock up, but uhm—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh—" Sam says, wondering with sudden soberness what the fuck he's doing anyway, "Yeah damn. I gotta get going." He nods to the door, "Work in the morning."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh… oh okay, yeah. No, that's… yeah." He swallows and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Hey, thanks for stopping by. It's been nice."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam hands Bucky his credit card when they get back to the counter, "This time, I'm gonna insist." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky smiles, snorts softly in protest, but swipes Sam's card anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam tips him more generously than before. A slight frown appears, but it's there and gone in a second, "Thanks." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, I'll see you around, huh?" Sam says, slipping his jacket back on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky winks, says, "I'll hold you to it." </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It's Sunday, supposed to be Bucky's day off; the bar's closed on Sundays. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, it's a long, dull morning at work. Bucky's been there since five fucking a.m. waiting for some urgent shipment that for the boss that just could not wait. He's out of town and wasn't expecting it so soon, so it's Bucky's lucky day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing's arrived yet, so he spring cleans out of pure boredom, restacks the bottles and glasses because that was long overdue. Perhaps it helps keep his mind off Sam and them dancing like two sappy mooks the night before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He worries that he went too far, acted too forward, he thinks maybe Sam's not that into him after all. He left so suddenly, looked so bewildered. Bucky should have known better, but he thought, for a second, that perhaps… just maybe… he thought Sam felt it too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's something between them, and he was so sure he wasn't the only one thinking it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls his hair back, ties it up, fiddles with his shirt, yawns, then makes coffee to stop yawning and contemplates calling Malick and asking what the fuck is up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, a few minutes later, a noisy truck pulls up outside. Finally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky greets them, signs some delivery receipt with an octopus head on it, wonders if they're doing seafood now, too, and if they've come to deliver the sushi equipment or something. It's two large, vertical boxes, and they wheel it in after he tells them to leave it in Malick's poker room. But they head that way anyway, like they know where it is, despite never being here before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's all pretty weird, not his usual delivery guys either. Stranger than that: they're all wearing masks that cover the bottom half of their faces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky treads carefully, acts polite enough because they make him nervous. His ma warned him about the devil; she also told him to trust his gut and know his way out, so he keeps his back to the door and his pocket knife wrapped in his fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, he thinks, is not a standard delivery at all. This edgy feeling is not normal, and the goods are certainly not normal. Everything about this reeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His thoughts are confirmed when they stack the boxes up against the wall, and he steps back only for his heel to hit one of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thin door slips open, quietly, secretly, revealing rows and rows of tiny vials. And in it is a lurid blue liquid, glowing almost, so entrancing that he can't stop looking. He knows, though, that he should not have seen this; this is not meant for anyone's eyes. Realizes too that these men had orders to hide the shipment away where only Malick would see it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes his heel back, quietly shuts the little door before the delivery guy looks his way. His throat struggles to swallow, to work down the dryness, but he musters up an affiliative smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees them out a few seconds later, closes the door, and wonders what the hell those vials are. Drugs? Steroids? Something else? He's never seen anything like it, so blue, so vivid. Seemingly dangerous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone rings then, and Bucky jumps about a meter in the air before answering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sir?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"James. Has my delivery arrived yet?" Malick asks. There's a lot of white noise where he is, a plane Bucky assumes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Couple of minutes ago, yeah. Want me to—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll take care of it, son. Go home. And James…" Malick says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky closes his eyes, worried that Malick's going to ask if he looked inside and saw the tiny vials of mystery liquid. Fears that he'll say </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is very bad for you, James</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and then everything will drown in darkness as they come for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows, "Yes, sir?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lock that door for me, huh?" he says, and Bucky physically deflates with relief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No problem, sir." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky shakes himself out as he ends the call, shivers all the way from his hairline down to his toes. He leaves the room and shuts the door, locks it so that all of its secrets stay inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He backs away from it, mind racing and disorientated, and bumps right into something that shouldn't be in the middle of the floor. And he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>they've come for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bucky flings himself around, arms out, hears a strangled sound rip from his throat, eyes shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holy shit, dude?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam blinks at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh my god," he breathes, staggering to the door and locking up shop so that there'll be no more surprise visitors, then heads straight for the bar. Sam follows in concern. "Oh my god. I'm sorry." Bucky says, breathless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's up, man?" Sam watches, big-eyed and frowning, as Bucky pours a shot and downs it, then another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I uh, just… just got spooked, I guess." He laughs because it's kind of funny now that he thinks about it. It seems to relax Sam, too, makes him smile a little. Bucky wonders if his heart's also hammering like thunder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Damn. Better pour me one too. You scared the shit outta me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky happily obliges. Pours them each a long shot of tequila, no lemon this time, just straight-up nerve easers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Bucky calms down a little, he looks at Sam, really looks, and sees dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept a wink the night before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You alright? Didn't mean to scare you so bad."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam sighs, smiles just the way Bucky likes, kind of teasing and a little cute, and says, "Don't worry about it." He gives Bucky a once over, "Hey, what spooked you that bad, anyway? This place haunted or something?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky stares for a moment, thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, I think it's worse, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then says it out loud before he can stop himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" Sam says, frowning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky shakes his head, about to make a total idiot of himself, "Think my boss is into some weird shit." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam gapes at him. A beat passes, "Like… sexually?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky snorts, turns to the liquor rack, and takes down a bottle of Vodka, "We're gonna need more booze for this." He pours them each a glass, walks around the bar, and sits down beside Sam. It feels nice, comfortable, just like when he had Sam dancing in his arms the night before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam looks nice too, in a black t-shirt and sweats like maybe he'd been on his couch enjoying movies and snuggling his cat before deciding to come here. He smells even better, like fresh shower wash and spicy aftershave; Bucky forgets for just a second what he was going to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Sam chuckles quietly, snapping Bucky back to the ghost story. He feels a little dumb now for staring, but it's out there now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, not sexually. Criminally." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Sam's face does a peculiar thing, something like fake shock, as if he had been expecting Bucky to say exactly that. But there's also relief, weirdly, and then... endearment?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam grins at him, takes a long swig of his vodka, "I'm all ears."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells Sam everything. Tells him about the storeroom, the late nights, the money and the creepy friends, and today's delivery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he's done, Sam just blinks at him, astonished, a little incredulously. Bucky thinks he fucked up; he said too much, he sounds like a paranoid idiot, and Sam's suddenly going to 'have to leave,' and never come back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Sam blinks again. Blows out a long breath through balled up cheeks, "I'm a P.I.," he says, the words fall from his mouth in an abrupt, ramble, "I'm investigating this bar…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky reels back, "What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stare at each other in stunned silence for a couple of seconds. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Jesus Christ?" </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bucky says when the words sink in, feels his nose crinkle up, "You <em>lied!"</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And your boss is </span>
  <em>
    <span>a criminal!"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sam says equally astonished, mimicking Bucky's expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky realizes then that it is entirely possible that they are being watched or at least heard somehow and brings his finger up to his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay. Shh. Shh," he whispers, looks around the empty bar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's no security in here, I checked." Sam hisses back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky reels back again, points at Sam, "Spy!" he accuses in a rough hush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam points at him, sneers back, </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a spy!" then, after a beat, "Where's the shipment—can we stop whispering?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah—" he fixes his voice, straightens up, points to the closed poker room door, "It's in there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam gets up, cocks his head in that direction, "Let's go." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What are you doing? Are you crazy?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Sam's eyes fall on Malick's office door instead. He heads that way, and Bucky feels the same dread coiling up in his gut as he did earlier when the weird masked men came around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sam," he says, but Sam's already gone inside. Bucky switches on his phone torch to light the way, and he's not sure at all why he's complicit in this madness, but it feels less wrong than whatever happened earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's behind Malick's laptop, clicking and typing, and the bright light flashes across his face. He's really pretty like that, Bucky thinks. He pictures Sam on his couch, the t.v casting similar glows on his face, only in this daydream he's curled up against Bucky, they're holding hands…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh my god," Sam whispers, "This is… it's her…. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>here." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jennifer Watson." He has one hand over his mouth, eyes wide as he watches. Bucky goes around to see what he's looking at and finds it's the street cam footage from outside dated about three weeks ago. "I'm—she went missing… her family's paying me to find her." He starts snapping pics of the footage on his phone but leaves it just as it is. "All my leads have been going cold because this footage was doctored." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holy shit. This is serious," Bucky says. His unwilling involvement hits him like a ton of bricks, "Look, I didn't…. I don't have anything to do with— I just work here, man." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam looks up at him, shuts the laptop down again. He seems to soften and comes closer, so they're just a little way apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I know," he says, gives a contemplating shrug, "I mean, I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>now…" </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky gasps, audibly shocked for a third time today, "You suspected </span>
  <em>
    <span>me? </span>
  </em>
  <span>You thought I—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam laughs then, cutting him off. He shakes his head, "I suspected everyone. You—maybe a little less…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're standing awfully close; Bucky can't get air to the bottom of his lungs looking at Sam like this, so close, so easy to…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam breathes in deep, swallows, his eyes flicking briefly to Bucky's mouth, then up again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have to check out that shipment," he tells Bucky, quietly apologetic for some reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky nods like a dumb idiot and breaks away to the door, so Sam doesn't see the embarrassment on his face but then…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That haunting whistle. That goddamn song Bucky can never place. Something sinister and wrong like a warning. Malick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shit…" he stares at the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What is that?" Sam says in horror as it gets closer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Malick." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, Jesus!" Sam whispers, hands on his head, looking panicked around the room for a solution to the shit show this is about to become. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Bucky's probably going to regret this, but there's about a 90% chance Malick's heading for his office now, and so Bucky grabs Sam, pulls him closer, and kisses him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kisses him because Malick is perverted enough to laugh about this, two horny kids making out in his office, just looking for a place to get nasty. Bucky's known him long enough to know he'd laugh it off and tell them to have fun. He wouldn't think they were snooping around and uncovering all his sins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. It's nice. It's goddamn murderous because Sam makes a small sound, relaxes against Bucky, digs his fingers into the meat of Bucky's bicep just like he had last night… and inexplicably </span>
  <em>
    <span>kisses Bucky back.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The whistling becomes louder, Malick's footsteps too. But they're kissing, Sam's kissing him, and he's reaching up to touch Sam's face, opening his mouth a little more, feels Sam lick into it, tugging at the hem of his shirt. And oh god… oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>god.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Next door, the poker room unlocks with a soft click. The whistling stops, and so does Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stay absolutely still, looking at each other, their mouths still wet from kissing, listening to what's happening next door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh. What's he doing?" Sam whispers, voice but a waver, breathless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, Bucky shakes his head. Trying with every fiber of his being not to lean down and kiss this guy again. He bites his lip so he won't. Thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, but I want to, again and again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Another door opens, a thick and heavy cracking sound that Bucky's never heard before, and then Malick's whistling starts up again, but this time, it's drowned out by a woman's blood curdling scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam stares at Bucky in horror as another thick and heavy crack echoes and the whistle becomes fainter and eventually disappears altogether. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where the fuck did he go?" Sam says. Because they're both positive that Malick didn't leave, but he… left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They peel away from each other a little awkwardly, slightly hesitant and unsure, and Bucky nods to the door. Sam follows. They check the bar, the bathrooms, the kitchen, and finally the poker room, but they're the only people in there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malick's car is still outside, and the shipment of blue vials is gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam digs around inside the poker room, gets a weird look on his face, and turns the poker table over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the fuck," says Bucky, "Is that—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam nods, "A lever, yeah." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And a map." Bucky pulls out a piece of paper from a small slat in the wood, opens it, and blinks and blinks. There are endless tunnels, some marked with an X, right below the bar, "What the hell is happening right now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I gotta go. I have to—I gotta go," Sam tells him, and puts everything back in its place but takes the map. They both start moving. "You need to be careful. Don't trust anyone, don't touch anything in there, and don't say a thing to Malick. You carry a weapon?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky nods, bewildered, and follows him out to the street, "Sam, where are you going?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam looks at him, stress all over his face, his shoulders tight and drawn in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"To work," he says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Sam doesn't come back the next day, or the day after that… or the day after that.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>are yall ready for these boys to get absolutely stupid? strap in. the next two chapters are dramatic pining and longing which could easily be solved with a phone call. but no.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Chances are they're all in the tunnels somewhere." Sam takes a step back from the table for a sip of his coffee. Steve's still hunched over the map Sam brought back from the bar. </p><p>"Can't believe this," Steve says again, his hair flops into his eyes as he looks up. His own coffee's long forgotten on the desk, and the bagel he'd been eating discarded in the frantic rush Sam brought along with him.</p><p>"Yeah, man. This is like—" </p><p>"A movie. Dude, I know." Sam angles the map sideways, takes another look at the intricate web of tunnels beneath the city, one of which leads right up to Malick's bar. </p><p>Steve and Sam's theory is that Malick revamped the storeroom specifically to gain access to the tunnels. The targets must have been in the area on nights that Bucky left Malick to closed up shop—perhaps waiting for an Uber in the quiet, street outside—only to be lured or forced back inside and then disappeared into the tunnel network. </p><p>Which makes this premeditated. But Malick went down there, which also means the victims are most likely still below the city somewhere. Sam's sure of it; why else would Malick go down there again? </p><p>They can only guess why the victims were abducted, though. Trafficking, perhaps, some kind of experimentation or testing based on the vials Bucky described, but the point is that there are innocent people down there, scared and possibly injured at best. Sam feels kind of sick thinking about it.</p><p>"Alright," Steve says, straightens up, "Yeah. This should be enough to escalate. And you're sure it's her?" </p><p>Sam shows him the photo again, the one of Jennifer he managed to snatch off the footage. Steve compares the grainy image to the one on their whiteboard and nods. It matches up: the shape of her chin, her hair. It's definitely her. </p><p>"That's her," Steve confirms, "Bet the other's are on the broken footage too." He grins at Sam, heads to the door, and starts pulling on his coat, "You gonna make the call?" </p><p>Sam smiles; it feels insincere with how tired he is after spending all night researching city tunnels and abandoned subway routes, compiling all their evidence for Steve to take up to social services. </p><p>"Yeah, man," he says, happy about it despite the exhaustion because this is, after all, his favorite part of the job. Being able to tell the families they've got a hot lead, something promising to go on—just a little bit of hope. </p><p>"Call your ma too," Steve tells him, collecting the map and printed images that Sam took with his phone. "And eat... And sleep. Jesus, I am your ma." </p><p>Sam laughs, "Go!" </p><p>And then, once Steve's gone, and the door shuts behind him, Sam's alone with his own thoughts for the first time since he left the bar. He's not quite ready to think about that yet, so he picks up the phone and dials his mother. </p><p>He talks to her for half an hour, and the conversation is pretty much "Did you eat? Are you sleeping? Have you met someone yet? You know Riley, Mrs. Simmons' son; he's still single. How's work, baby?" </p><p>The answer to all her inquiries is something that would make her worry, so Sam lies. Says he sleeps okay, and that he ate Steve's bagel, and he's not interested in dating right now. He tells her work is work; it pays the bills. She's mostly happy, placated, except about the food. </p><p>He promises he'll visit soon, sends Steve's regards, tells her he loves her, and hangs up. </p><p>Still not ready to face what happened at the bar between him and Bucky, he calls Jennifer's family. </p><p>Her dad cries, which is a hard thing to hear such a burly man do. Jordan's mother and father thank him tearfully, and Hank's wife lets out a long, relieved sigh. The hard part is telling them he can't guarantee that they're alive, but he'll call as soon as he knows anything. </p><p>And by the time he's done and hangs that call up too, he's hardly able to stand, and his brain's too burned out to think of anything other than a soft pillow and his own bed and sleeping while the rain pours down on the city outside. </p><p>He locks up, walks home, strips off naked, and gets into bed just like that.</p><p>He's out the moment his head hits the pillow.</p><hr/><p>When Sam wakes up, it's morning, still raining, low rumbling thunder in the distance, and his bedroom windows are fogged up.</p><p>But his head's all clear now, and he just lies there and stares up at the ceiling. </p><p>Horribly and uncalled for, he thinks, he just kissed me as a cover-up. Worse than that, he thinks, he said people hit on him all the time, maybe I wasn't any different.</p><p>Bucky heard his boss coming and did what he did so he wouldn't lose his job for snooping. So he wouldn't expose them and get them killed or something, perhaps even abducted with the other victims. </p><p>Right? That has to be it. Sure Bucky flirted, hell they both did, but this ain't the movies; this ain't some romance novel where two strangers meet in a bar and fall in love and walk off into the sunset together. </p><p>That shit doesn't happen. Not to him, anyway. </p><p>The reality is that the bar where Bucky works will be closed down, and he'll be jobless soon. Bucky is probably thinking if Sam had come clean earlier, Bucky could have made a plan, started looking for something else, hell he could have gotten himself out of danger sooner. </p><p>Instead, he'll be out on the street and short on pay. Yeah, Sam's sure he'd love to cozy up to the guy who caused it all.</p><p>Besides, Bucky stopped dancing with him the other night, suddenly retracted from Sam and had to "lock up." Like maybe he realized just then what he'd been doing and changed his mind. Maybe he just wanted to dance and felt Sam holding on too tight. </p><p>He feels utterly stupid now for wanting that kiss to go on longer than it did, for pulling Bucky closer, for just about moaning into his mouth. For wanting it still. </p><p>Sam lets out a groan loud enough to make him thankful that he lives by himself. Except Fiargo meows pitifully from the floor and stretches his tiny legs up against the bed.</p><p>Sam lets his fingers dangle down, "Hey, boy." </p><p>The cat jumps up and comes to cuddle under Sam's chin. The contact makes him feel marginally less miserable, and he falls asleep for another couple of hours.</p><p>He wakes to a text from Steve telling him it's going down at the bar. They've got agents heading into the tunnels now. Technically, Sam doesn't have to be there for it; he's done his job. He only needs confirmation that the victims have been found to do the rest. </p><p>But there's a restless urge to head that way, anyway. He wants to see for himself. Oh, who's he kidding. He wants to see Bucky. Wants to see if he'd been mistaken, and perhaps there's still something there. Or maybe he'll discover that there never was. </p><p>That way, he can either get it out of his system or move on. But this uncertain limbo won't do.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>Outside the bar, there's a buzzing mill of people, especially news reporters, a squad car for backup, and three ambulances. The bar is sectioned off with orange cones since onlookers have started gathering around the sidewalk to get a look. </p><p>Sam spots Steve talking to another social worker, red-cheeked and looking stressed. </p><p>"How's it going in there?" Sam asks when the other guy leaves. His eyes scan the crowd of people, subconsciously in search of one particular face.</p><p>Steve sighs long and deep, puffs a cloud of fog up into the air. "Eyes down there are saying it's some kind of experimentation project. These assholes got a whole lab set up under the city. Been injecting people with some unauthorized serum. Huge crates of medicines..."</p><p>"Jesus Christ, Steve." Sam looks away, understands now why Steve looks so frayed and tensed up. "I'll get us some coffee, huh? This'll take a while."</p><p>Steve nods, so Sam squeezes his shoulder and turns but walks straight into a solid wall of muscle. </p><p>"Shit—" he says at the same time Bucky says, "Sorry—oh." and they kind of stare at one another stupidly with a thick crackling tension extending between them like reaching tentacles. Sam hates it. He spoke so easily to Bucky before. They were all jokes and flirting, and now… now this. </p><p>But he's huge and gorgeous, and whatever this awkwardness is doesn't change that, doesn't change at all that Sam can't keep his eyes to himself.</p><p>Bucky's different, though. Tight around his eyes, jaw, and shoulders tense, far from the charming, easy guy Sam met not so long ago. </p><p>So he was right then. Bucky blames him. </p><p>"The, uh," Bucky starts, tucks a loose lock of hair behind his ear, "They're fine. Apparently. The missing people. They're all okay. Malnourished and a little beat up but..." </p><p>"Yeah?" Sam says, too fast, too relieved that Bucky's talking to him even if his voice is low and toneless, "That's good." </p><p>Bucky looks down at the puddle of rainwater at his feet, "One was just a kid." </p><p>Sam stuff his hands into his pockets, "Yeah. Jordan." </p><p>Then it's quiet again, stiff and weird, and Sam can't think of anything to say. Can't imagine possibly telling Bucky now that he's kind of sweet on him. Doesn't feel right to. He doesn't think he'd get the response he wants anyway.</p><p>"What are you gonna do now, man?" Sam says, apologetically quiet.</p><p>Bucky shrugs but doesn't drop his shoulders like he's sheltering himself from the icy wind. He looks at the bar, the flashing red lights, the victims being brought out on stretchers, people giving statements. </p><p>"Don't know. This was… this is a mess." He smiles, but it's wrong. It's flat and lifeless, no teeth, no happily narrowed eyes, and Sam hates it. </p><p>"Look—" he starts, but a horn blares behind them, a red car pulls up, and Bucky swivels that way, cutting Sam off. </p><p>"Uh… my ride…" </p><p>"Okay," Sam says. "Yeah." His stomach sinks low, feels hollow, and even though his heart's telling him to say something, to grab Bucky's hand before he gets away, Sam can't move.</p><p>He's frozen watching Bucky stare back at him, eyes icy grey like the sky above them, and he can't find the words, doesn't know what Bucky wants to hear, what he's waiting for. But Sam keeps thinking this wasn't real, this wasn't anything, and it's over now.</p><p>"Yeah," Bucky laughs, but it's no happy sound. It's miserable. "Bye Sam," he says, turning on his heel.</p><p>And then he's gone, lost in the crowd of onlookers, and a few moments later the red car is gone too.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> "You're miserable," Steve tells him two days later after he finds Sam staring out the window at the street below. </p><p>Sam shakes his head, forgets that Steve knows him inside out, "I'm not."</p><p>"You're miserable. You haven't touched your coffee." </p><p>He sighs, goes to sit down at his desk, and pointedly takes a sip of the coffee Steve had brought over. A new case just came in—something, something money laundering, something mob business. </p><p>"I'm fine. Let's get to work." </p><p>Steve rolls his eyes, but Sam feels him glance over every now and again, then making some super annoying, sympathetic face that he thinks Sam can't see.</p><p>"...so Jody got herself stuck up the tree out front. I've been telling these kids not to chase each other like that. Think I'm ready for Sarah to come back from her vacation now. I'd like a goddamn vacation—Sam? Did you hear a word I just said?"</p><p>"Yeah, ma," he says, "sorry," and wonders why he's craving Tequila.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>Washing's been piling up, and Sam's gotta do something about the laundry mountain eventually. </p><p>He finds the shirt he wore to the bar the night Bucky danced with him, and it smells just like spicy aftershave and stale liquor. </p><p>He thinks maybe he doesn't need to do the washing just yet.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>It's another rainy, grey Sunday afternoon. Sam's at the office because he became restless at his apartment. He totally came here intending to get some work done, but one thing led to another, and now he's curled up on the old raggedy couch watching a movie on his laptop. </p><p>Steve comes by unexpectedly, and Sam knows that guilty look mixed with judgment all too well. They're the same—both of them insufferable. </p><p>"On a Sunday, Wilson?" Steve says, shrugging his thick wooly coat off, "Really?"</p><p>"On a Sunday, Rogers?" Sam mocks, doesn't even look at Steve, just pulls his hoodie over his head.</p><p>Steve throws himself down on the couch beside Sam, and he's forced to shift up and make space for Steve's bony legs. Steve sighs, looks at Sam. Sam looks back.</p><p>"What're you watching?" </p><p>Sam angles the laptop away. The last thing he needs is Steve's comments about this is. He feels enough of a fool as it is.</p><p>But Steve's a pain in the ass, and he grabs the laptop anyway, takes one look at Tom Cruise's face, and then blinks at Sam.</p><p> "Are you watching Cocktail?" </p><p> "No."</p><p> "Yeah," Steve says, sighing, "You're miserable." </p><p> And for once, Sam gives in and lets Steve put an arm around him. </p><p> "Yeah, yeah, I am." </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>aaand here's Bucky being dramatic before coming to his senses.<br/>sorry this update is a little late.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Bucky had no idea how terrible it felt missing something that he never had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd driven away from the bar a couple of days ago with something rock solid and heavy in his chest. He'd driven away knowing Sam wasn't in it the way he was, didn't feel the same. Or he would have said something, right? Yeah.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sure, Sam had been there on business, he'd been hanging around at the bar for info and clues and investigator stuff, and Bucky has no place being upset that Sam didn't reciprocate his feelings. He knows that's not what it was about for Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thing is, he thought there had been something between them. God, he'd been so sure. He saw the way Sam looked at him- differently than all the other clients, differently than Pierce and Garret, and he thought just maybe…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they danced, when they kissed... It felt like more, felt reciprocated for a brief moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Sam's silence proved otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky stood there waiting, silently begging him to say something, and he never did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, god, Bucky, why didn't <em>you</em> say something then?" his sister said, half-hysterical, on the way back to her apartment that day. She'd been about ready to turn the car around and drive him back to the crime scene. Had his heart not been all kinds of bitter and sore, he would have let her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now? Now he's been living in Becca's spare room in Jersey because the police told him to get out of dodge for a while until they catch up with Malick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But hasn't been entirely useless; there's no point in it. He needs a job, probably a new apartment, and honestly, keeping busy keeps his mind off what could have been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he does Becca's grocery shopping while she's at work, spring cleans her apartment, reorganizes her bathroom cabinets, and bakes sugar cookies when he's not job hunting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when he is, he sends out email after email: barman, topless barman, topless waiter, suit-wearing waiter, chef's assistant, human sushi platter, dancer, private dancer, stripper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which just makes him think of Sam joking about it with him that one night, laughing at him, the way his eyes crinkled up, and how his lips were shiny wet with Tequila. There must have been something; there must have been a spark for him too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he can't dwell on it. He'd make himself crazy if he did. He can't dwell on Sam's smile and his high cheekbones and the long curl of his lashes. He definitely can't daydream about kissing that sweet, sweet mouth again, slower next time and less panicked, and maybe just maybe it'll lead someplace else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. For sure. He can't think about any of that. Not Sam's hands on him, squeezing Bucky's bicep the way he liked to do, fingers tugging him closer, that little sigh he let out mid-kiss like it was the best thing he'd ever felt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can't think of asking Sam out and taking him to a nice place, maybe holding his hand, telling him that he's the most gorgeous guy Bucky's ever seen. Can't think of curling up against Sam's back and wrapping his arms around him and falling asleep like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't. He shouldn't. He won't put himself through it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that's how Becca finds him, daydreaming and letting out a long sullen sigh because he can't make it come true. And maybe he's been listening to Bonnie Tyler on repeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jesus." she sighs too, throws his coat at him, "Come on, I'll take you to lunch."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts his coat on and slips a beanie over his head because he hadn't bothered with his hair at all. "Fine. But I'll be miserable there too." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, well, at least then I can eat and drink without hearing Total Eclipse of the Heart for the hundredth time." She says as they leave her apartment. "Let's go."</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It's a small, cozy little diner just a few blocks from her place, and it does the trick—kind of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky was hungrier than he thought, and eating lifts a little bit of the slump he's been in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But their waiter's got a gap between his two front teeth, and he talks with that sweet teasing lilt just like Sam and Bucky tries not to choke when he smiles at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The waiter leaves his number on the bill when he brings it, and Bucky tears it off just to be polite like he does with those girls at the bar, puts it in his pocket then forgets about it once they leave.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>He starts going to the gym again. He thinks burning himself out will take his mind off it, like perhaps then he'd be too tired to have any regrets or think of how Sam doesn't want him back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when his head hits the pillow the first night, the only thing on his mind is how he'd give anything to lay his tired body down beside Sam and fall asleep in his arms.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Becca thinks karaoke is just the thing that'll cheer him up. She gets him properly juiced up beforehand, calls it 'pre-game warmup,' and it hits him hot and bright, way faster than he's used to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Embarrassing for a former bartender, he thinks as they head over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she'd been right. With a steady stream of just the right liquor, his brain is hazy and quiet, and he doesn't give a shit about much else. He even flirts with a guy at the bar, buys him a drink but loses him somewhere in the crowd later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He's fine until Becca's done with her terrible rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, and it's his turn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a random song generator, adds to the fun, the DJ says. But it starts playing Making Love Out of Nothing At All, and he makes it two lines in before his chin starts doing some weird, uncontrollable wobble, and tears bubble up in his eyes until the crowd's just a smudged-up mess in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The backtrack plays on, and Becca rushes up, takes his mike, and apologizes to the bar. They're merciful, clapping and whistling anyway as if he'd given some thrilling performance, but really, he's sobbing uncontrollably into his sister's coat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At home, the booze makes a reappearance, and Becca holds his hair so he can get it all out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jesus, Buck. You got it bad, huh?" She says quietly, rubbing circles on his back. "Yeah. I see it now. You've got it bad," she whispers when he just groans in answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits up after dry heaving for ten minutes, wipes his mouth, and drinks some ice water that Becca hands him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Goddamn nineties music," he says, and they both start laughing. They laugh and laugh and wheeze, and then he's crying again because alcohol is a really nasty companion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wipes a tear from his cheek, "Yeah, loser. Sure it's the fuckin' nineties." </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>When Bucky wakes up the following day, his head pounds, and his body aches, and contrary to hangover lore, he remembers the night before very vividly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to shut his eyes again and forget that he mortifyingly started crying in front of all those people but instead drags himself up for coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a pink sticky note on the fridge that he peels off and reads while sipping from his mug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's an address in the city, an old office block, there's a number too, and at the bottom written with hearts all around the name: <em>WilsonRogers Investigative Firm.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he blinks and blinks and gapes at it like an idiot. Resolutely, he thinks he's not going to follow this up. He's not jumping on this. He's not going to call; he's not going to think about it even, because what then? He calls, and Sam hangs upon him? He'd hardly survive that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he showers, gets dressed, and starts sorting Becca's book collection, vacuums the apartment, does his laundry, washes, dries, and folds it, and then still finds himself restless and standing in the middle of Becca's lounge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck's sake," he breathes, drops his head, hands on his hips, and comes to realize that he's not getting Sam out of his head anytime soon. He might as well jump.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his heart beating in his ears and his throat all cottony and thick, he grabs his jacket and sneakers and gets dressed at the speed of light, without stopping to think it over. Because if he does, he'll chicken out again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he bolts down the sidewalk, flags down a cab, and asks the driver to haul it to 32 Parkway. The sticky note's clutched between his fingers, crumpled up, and he doesn't stop hyperventilating even a little on the way there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a florist on the street front, so he grabs a bunch of roses, deep blood red, and climbs the stairs two at a time until he gets to the office number Becca wrote down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vaguely, there's a voice telling him what a fool he's being, but he cuts it off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a skinny blonde dude sitting at the front desk, typing away on his laptop. He doesn't notice Bucky until he awkwardly clears his throat and hides the flowers behind his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hi," he says, swallows, "I'm uh… I'm looking for—" god, this was dumb; he's shaking, "I'm looking for Sam."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blonde arches up an eyebrow, "Yeah? You got an appointment?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky shakes his head. This was absolutely the worst idea; what in the goddamn world had possessed him to come rushing over here without a plan, without even an inch of composure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't. I just thought… I don't know. I thought maybe—" he sucks in a breath, decides to stop embarrassing himself, "You know what, nevermind." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blonde sighs like he's exasperated and tired, kind of like how Becca's been acting. He holds up his hand, pins Bucky down with a look, and picks up the phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind the closed wooden door to his left, a phone rings twice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sam," the blonde says, eyes Bucky up and down then gets a horrible, horrible glint in his eye, "Beefcake delivery for you out front." and then hangs up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky frowns, stares at the blonde guy, and starts opening his mouth to ask what the fuck when the door opens, and Sam starts talking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Man, what the hell did you order—oh!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops, big-eyed and mouth parted, and again says, "Oh…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sweet lord, he's gorgeous. He's beautiful. His cute, thick glasses, his check shirt tight around his biceps with a pen hooked in the breast pocket, and he's swallowing like he's nervous too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hi," Bucky says, clears his throat again. "I just…" He's suddenly too conscious of himself, too aware and vulnerable. He drags his hand through his hair and sighs, decides to lay himself bare, "I don't know. I miss you. There. I said it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam turns to the blonde, "Steve," he says, pointedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What? Two weeks of moping, and you're kicking me out before the final show?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I swear to god, homie," Sam says, pinching the bridge of his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine. Alright. Alright." the guy, Steve, grabs his stuff and stomps to the door. Upon shutting it, he repeats himself, "Fine!" and Sam lets out a quiet chuckle, shakes his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when Sam looks back at Bucky, he raises the flowers as a last offering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I got you these." But he can't stop now, "And I can't stop thinking about you. Not since the bar, I've been going crazy thinking this isn't… that for you it wasn't. Look I <em>know</em> it was a job, I know that and I know you've moved on, I know that too but—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, quick as anything, Sam's coming toward him, grabbing Bucky's shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And this time, Sam's kissing</span>
  <em>
    <span> him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets the roses drop to get his hands on Sam instead, curling into his shirt, mouth open and hot and urgent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I hoped—" Sam says breathlessly between kisses, "—you'd come around." he lets Bucky pick him up and carry him to the office, and goddammit it, the weight of him feels so good. So real. "And I—" he kisses Bucky again, pulls away, and cups his cheek, "—I missed you too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky smiles, lips brushing against Sam's mouth, laying him down on an old couch that looks like it might not hold their weight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans back and looks at Sam, laughs because his glasses are all steamed up now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah? You missed me? How much?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam groans when he opens his eyes, yanks the glasses off, and tosses them aside. And then he's blinking up at Bucky with those disgustingly long lashes, and everything inside of Bucky explodes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam knows what he feels because he smiles, "Come here, I'll show you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then his legs come up around Bucky's waist, and he kisses him again, harder and longer. This time there are no interruptions, no whistling madmen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's just the two of them making up for far too much wasted time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it's perfect. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <span>Bucky finds a job eventually. It involves more glitter than he's ever seen in his life and requires fewer clothes than advertised, but it's a ball. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He works five nights a week, gets good tips for some asshole with a pink top, and gets to tell tipsy girls about his gorgeous boyfriend all the time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wears the glitter and pink singlet happily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Sam got an apartment together a while back, a cozy little place with a small balcony and a fireplace. Sam always waits up for him, scolds him about all the glitter he scatters all over the place when he comes home, and then continues to strip him out of the singlet and makes out with him against the fridge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets cleaned up and joins Sam on the couch; they watch crime documentaries well into the morning, and Sam says, "We're so much better at this," watching the cops figure out who robbed the bank, who killed the husband or how'd the fingerprints end up all the way over there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Damn straight, sweetheart," Bucky tells him because that's what they do now, call each other sappy, love-struck names.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam smiles and looks over at him, leans in for a kiss. Something soft and tender that never quite stays that way. They always end up in bed, and Sam does things that make Bucky forget how to speak, and it's better than anything Bucky's ever felt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, the following day, and this is the best part: he wakes up next to Sam.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all for reading, hope you enjoyed this fic!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>catch me over here too: <a href="https://glittercake.tumblr.com/">glittercake</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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